


Courage and the Comte

by ComeHitherAshes



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aramis is Lumiere, Athos is grumpy and insular, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Porthos ain't having any of it, Porthos is best Disney princess, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but without shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 14:36:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11969421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeHitherAshes/pseuds/ComeHitherAshes
Summary: It was my bestie's birthday last month, and I figured I'd write something insanely adorable and crack fic-y for him. So, Drake, this is for you, happy birthday! <3 It's the first thing I've written without re-reading or a beta, so forgive me my mistakes.





	Courage and the Comte

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misanthropiclycanthrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sins Of The Past](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2469863) by [misanthropiclycanthrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope). 



> It was my bestie's birthday last month, and I figured I'd write something insanely adorable and crack fic-y for him. So, Drake, this is for you, happy birthday! <3 It's the first thing I've written without re-reading or a beta, so forgive me my mistakes.

_Once upon a time, in the hidden heart of France, a handsome comte lived in a beautiful castle. That is where the similarities end, for this prince was not spoiled, he was not vain or vulgar, he was not even loved._

_Orphaned at a young age and left with a large fortune and responsibility for a village, he tried his hardest to keep his people fed and warm, but there was always something more to be done, always another mouth to feed and a complaint to be heard._

_Then one night, an evening of rains and gales and frosts at the window, a woman came seeking shelter. The young comte let her in, enraptured by her beauty and enthralled by her compliments. She swept into his life like a snow drift, cold and sparkling, and she fed him sweetmeats by the light of a roaring fire whilst the village began to go hungry. The comte did not want to see the truth for he was young and lonely, but he learned it too late._

_She stole his heart, and then she broke it._

 

* * *

 

Porthos flipped his knife tip-over-end, catching the hilt in his fingers with a sigh. There was nothing to do, he had already cleared a day's worth of tasks in one single morning. The vegetable garden was picked clean, the hides were tanned, he had even unblocked the chimney in a fit of smoke-stained pique.

There was still some soot on his hands, and his shirt was ruined, but any coin he had left had to be spent on food not laundry.

It had been a lean month, with most of his pickings going towards the young kids in their town. The orphanage was hard-pressed after the last winter, and Porthos would be happy to never see snow again.

Spring was here, and he wanted adventure.

There was a pressure against his side, a familiar face stumbling into him, and Porthos caught the slim wrist that tried to dip into his pocket.

"Nice try, Charon."

Charon elbowed him, hard, but leaned against the wall as if he hadn't a care in the world when Porthos let him go.

"That caravan's comin' past today, wanna give it a lookover?"

Porthos frowned at his sometimes-friend, wondering why they had been raised on these same streets and yet they walked different paths now.

"No, y'know I don't do that anymore, an' neither should you."

Charon scoffed, turning away until Porthos could see the tail end of a scar that crept over his shoulder. It was raised and pink, fresh from his last bout with the law. They'd been lenient with him, and only because Porthos had vouched for him.

It wouldn't be the first time that Charon had gone behind his back.

"Look," Charon sighed, palm going to a dagger at his hip. "I ain't eatin' cabbage soup for dinner again."

"Then go an' hunt somethin'," Porthos growled, but Charon just rolled his eyes at him.

"I am," Charon called over his shoulder, "s'called a score."

Porthos almost went after him, but with all the best intentions in the world, Charon always ended up dragging him down into that same old murky world.

Porthos wanted an adventure, not a horror story.

There were no dragons to vanquish, no damsels to save, but at least he could load up his cart with some of his vegetables and hope to sell them in the next town tomorrow.

Who knew, maybe he would meet the love of his life on the way, or at least a dragon to vanquish.

Porthos snorted to himself, and ate half of an apple, planning to give the rest to his horse. Thunder was his most expensive possession, and the only thing he hadn't stolen. At least, he didn't think he had stolen him, because he couldn't quite remember where he had come from.

Sometimes Porthos remembered a man who had looked after him when he was younger, someone who promised to teach him the sword, but around the same time the village had started struggling, Thunder had appeared in Porthos' life and the man, it seemed, had never existed.

Still, he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, not when—

Porthos walked into an empty stall, and nearly dropped his apple. "What the fuck?"

Flea popped her head around the wall, frown low on her pale brow. The three of them had lived together since they were young, taking over an old, abandoned house and taking in any of the young kids who needed a roof over their heads.

"Tch. I knew you hadn't said it was okay," she muttered, and took the rest of the apple from his hand. "Charon took 'im."

"What, where?"

Flea shrugged, still damp from a day's work of doing the laundry. It couldn't have been a profitable day if she was nicking his food, but Porthos didn't begrudge her it. They had to stick together these days.

Porthos dragged a hand down his face, a groan escaping from between his fingers. "He's goin' after that caravan."

Flea's eyes widened. "If they catch 'im, they'll kill 'im. They won't go easy on 'im again."

Helpless anger was a familiar furnace in Porthos' chest, but all he could do was kick at the discarded hay on the floor and sigh. "Then we better 'ope they don't catch 'im."

He already knew that they would.

 

* * *

 

Porthos jerked awake, Flea's face halfway across the room where she had escaped in case he lashed out. As it was, his knife was already in his hand, but he lowered it at the look on her face.

"Thunder's back," she whispered. "Charon's not with 'im."

Porthos ran outside, the skies dark and stormy, to see Thunder nervously pawing the ground, a splash of pale hair in a strike of lightning. His reins trailed in the mud, but Flea was right, Charon was nowhere to be seen.

Porthos took a single second to decide what he was going to do, and Flea already had a cloak waiting for him when he dashed back inside.

"Take a couple knives," she warned, and tossed him what little bread they had left.

"I shouldn't be long, but if I am, tell the kids they can 'ave whatever they find in the garden," he murmured, tying the cloak around his neck and fishing into a pocket. "Here, it's the last bit of coin I've got. Make sure you eat, too."

He knew she wouldn't, she would give all the food to the younger ones, but she hugged him anyway.

"Porthos, if it comes to you or 'im…" Flea trailed off, her grip almost painful on his arm.

Porthos left without replying, clucking softly to his horse as he mounted up. The rain was getting worse, and he murmured an apology to Thunder for forcing him back out in the cold.

Thunder shook his head, spraying him with water, and set off before Porthos could ask him to, following the path he had taken earlier.

Porthos had never been more grateful for his wonderful horse, and he wished – as he often did – that he could thank whoever had gifted him. Instead, he rubbed at Thunder's neck and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

The forest closed in around them, shielding them from the worst of the rain, but the lightning still flashed in eerie shadows through the trees, and the cold was almost unbearable. It seemed to get worse, until Porthos was shivering badly and hugging Thunder's neck.

Trying to cover them both with his cloak, he buried his face in Thunder's mane, breathing on his hands to try and warm them up.

It was useless, he was going to die of frostbite trying to save his crooked friend, and in this miserable pit of a—

The wind dropped.

Porthos cautiously lifted his head, and his jaw fell. There was snow everywhere, light dustings on the ground and thick in the overhead branches. It wasn't even raining anymore, and the moon shone bright on a lone, huge castle ahead of him.

Where the fuck was he?

Thunder snorted, warm breath misting in the chilly air, and trudged onwards, clearly knowing the way. Porthos wasn't one to mistrust his clever horse, but even he had to wonder if Thunder hadn't bumped his head – or his, on some low hanging branch in the rain.

An odd prickling started at the base of his neck, the same feeling he used to get when he was breaking the law, the feeling of being watched.

He didn't like it.

In the bright moonlight, Thunder continued through overgrown gardens, stone walls crumbling to pieces, and onwards to a once-elegant castle that looked as if it was falling to bits.

Porthos craned his head up, following twisted parapets and huge stone towers. There was even glass in all the windows, thick and colourful, and a little part of Porthos' head, the one that spoke with Charon's voice, wondered if there was expensive stuff inside.

It hit him almost immediately; that thought was probably what had gotten Charon into trouble in the first place.

He wasn't sure what was worse, a run in with the law, or a scuffle with some fancy noble in a decrepit castle.

Thunder whickered, and Porthos looked down to realise they had arrived at some sort of stable. It was dark inside, but it was sheltered from the snow, and it looked like there was a trough and a half-eaten bag of feed.

"Been here before, 'ave we?" Porthos asked his horse as he slid from the saddle. Thunder simply nudged him in the chest before heading for food. "Tempted to stay 'ere with you."

Thunder gave him a look that said,  _no you're not,_  and flicked his tail when Porthos laughed nervously.

No, he wasn't, he was going to go inside, and he was terrified.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Porthos noticed was that it was warm.  _Warm._ Actually warm, with a large fire and a comfortable chair and a rug that his boots disappeared into.

Shit, he'd tracked mud in.

Still, if there was a fire, that meant someone was in. Maybe Charon had simply gotten lost and asked for a place to stay.

Yeah, sure, and dragons were real.

"Hello?"

Porthos' voice echoed around the large room, ringing back to him in a lower pitch. There was filigree peeling off the staircase, and dust coated the far corners. The rest of it was fairly clean, the floor looked as if it had even been mopped lately, but then the paintings on the walls were dull and the frames unpolished.

As he padded back towards the fire and hung his cloak over a chair, he thought he heard voices down a hallway. He was about to head in their direction when he heard a shout from above.

"Fuck you!"

So that's where Charon was.

Porthos raced up the stairs, choosing the flight on the right when he heard more of Charon's colourful curses. A room filled with candles branched off at one point, but still the shouts came from higher, a circular staircase that had Porthos gasping for breath once he reached a particularly loud slur.

"Ugly fu— Porthos?"

"You're gonna get me killed one day, Charon," Porthos gasped, hands on his knees. "I fuckin' swear."

Charon sneered, but there was a glint of fear in his eyes that Porthos had never seen before, a hesitancy that had him pressed against the far wall of his cell – and it was definitely a cell, a barred door between them which didn't budge under Porthos' hands.

"Not me, mate," Charon answered, aiming for cocky but sounding cowed. It was a long time since Porthos had seen him scared, not since they were kids and picking pockets just to get something to eat.

"Who'd you piss off this time?" Porthos asked, looking around at the cold walls a little disdainfully. A night in a cold cell wouldn't have done Charon any harm, but he was worried that the noble living here had gone for the King's guard.

Porthos would break Charon out if he had to, even if they both had to go into hiding for it.

There was a scuffle of noise, a scratch of something long and sharp on stone, and the torches flickered in an unseen breeze.

"Me."

Porthos turned, wide-eyed at that strange voice. It was rough, rasping, but a cough evened it out, turned it level, turned it melodic in its quietness.

"He stole from me."

Porthos peered into the darkness, trying to figure out who was there, but he was partly aware of Charon slinking further back into his cell.

"He steals from everyone," Porthos said with a shrug, trying not to look as scared as he felt. "'M sorry."

There was another scratch, this one accompanied by a confused pause. "You're sorry?"

"Yeah, 'e 'as sticky fingers."

Charon muttered a quiet string of curses, but Porthos ignored him, still trying to discern the shape of the shadows, trying to match it to the elegant voice gone rusty with disuse.

"He's my prisoner," the voice stated with conviction, and Porthos tried not to look as worried as Charon. If this rich bastard thought he could imprison people, maybe he was royalty, or maybe he was just so distanced from the rest of the world that he could just kill people and no one would know.

Who  _would_ know? Only Flea knew he was looking for Charon, and she would never find the place. Even he wasn't sure how he found the place.

"Don't leave me 'ere, Porthos, he's gonna eat me," Charon begged, and Porthos risked a glance behind him to see Charon looking terrified.

"Eat you? What're you talkin' about?"

"He's a fuckin' monster!"

A snarl echoed around the tower, something eerie and enraged, as if a wolf called this castle a home. There was another scratching, and now it sounded like the click of claws, the drag of heavy limbs against the walls.

Porthos' heart was in his throat, fear a tremor in every limb, and he pressed his back harder into the cell door, half wishing he was safely inside it too.

"Show yourself," he asked, and tried to make it sound demanding.

Porthos watched the shadow grow with his heart in his throat, watched it tower above him, tall and terrifying.

A pair of wings solidified in the darkness, jagged like a bat's and unfurled slightly, as if trying to appear bigger. Porthos pressed harder against the cell, gaze drawn down the long, featherless limb to see a scowl in the firelight, dark and brooding, but his skin was as pale as moonlight.

It was an aristocratic face, all sharp angles but for a mouth that looked oddly soft in comparison. An unamused smile parted lips to show a gleam of pointed fangs within. "Scared?"

"Fuckin' terrified," Porthos admitted, and thought he heard a delicate scoff of surprise.

Charon made a noise, and his captor turned to disdainfully survey him, bringing his head fully into the light, and Porthos swallowed nervously. Amidst scruffy hair was a pair of horns, arching from his temples and curving backwards, coming to a deadly point above his head.

They were dark, ebony in the glow of the torch and, in his terror, Porthos thought he looked rather like a dragon given human form.

Any noble thoughts of vanquishing had gone straight from his head.

"What, exactly, do you intend to do now?"

The cool, cultured voice – still a little rasping – made Porthos shiver, but his hands wouldn't move, wouldn't reach for a knife or a torch or anything. Fear had him rooted to the spot, and he could only tremble when a sneer showed those fangs again.

"Let 'im out," he whispered, trying to find his voice. "Please."

Shadowed eyes widened in surprise, but swiftly narrowed again. "No, he's my prisoner."

"You can't keep 'im 'ere forever," Porthos continued, hoping that only Charon saw his hands shake.

Those strange, pale eyes watched him curiously. "Yes I can."

 _Oh,_ well, Porthos wasn't really sure how to argue with that.

One pale hand raised, and Porthos saw claws at the tips of deft fingers. Porthos flinched, but they simply gripped a lever and unlocked the cell.

"You may say goodbye, if you wish."

Porthos blinked in surprise, and the way those claws curled in on themselves told Porthos that perhaps he wasn't the only one surprised. The politeness suited the voice though, as if the words were only barely remembered from a time gone by.

Charon stayed against the wall, eyes locked on his captor as if worried the tables would turn and they'd both find themselves at the bloody ends of talons and teeth. Porthos inched the door open, hoping they wouldn't suffer the same fate, and threw himself at Charon.

Skinny arms locked around his back, voice quiet and quavering. "I'm so fuckin' scared, Porthos."

"I know, me too," Porthos whispered back, and pressed a kiss to his friend's forehead. He had known he would do it the second he had seen Charon in the cell, and nothing had changed his mind. "Go."

Charon pulled back to look at him for half a second, pure terror pinching his face, and then he was gone, Porthos lurching onto nothing in his wake. The cell door clanged shut, and Porthos turned to see a surprised baring of fangs as Charon disappeared down the stairs.

Those wings flared, fluttering the flames, and claws clamped around the door's bars. "Why would you do that, save him?"

Porthos backed up against the wall, defeat and despair turning his limbs heavy. "I couldn't leave 'im 'ere."

There was a brief silence, and then another of those haughty sneers. "He found it perfectly easy to leave you."

Porthos huffed a pained sigh, and would have spread his hands if they weren't clenched behind his back. "That's 'is choice."

The lofty brow dropped beneath those eerie horns, pale eyes observing Porthos as if he was some sort of novelty, and then they darkened, something savage and suffering in their depths, and the claws scraped across the bars. "No, it was yours, and now you'll die here. You're a fool."

Porthos cringed from the sparks and sank back against the wall, the cold leeching into his bones, and as he watched a creature of nightmares disappear in a sweep of wings, he couldn't help but think he was right.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked the beginning of this mad, adorable idea. I've missed this fandom so much, it's ridiculously fun writing these boys. Thank you, also, to Scrabble, who helped me with a couple nitpicky ideas (I hope it shapes up to your expertise, my dear). 
> 
> Athos' beast form totally not inspired by my adoring and unending love for [Illidan,](https://orig07.deviantart.net/6478/f/2009/091/1/d/illidan_stormrage_by_sandara.jpg) but with Beast's horns.


End file.
